“We are to have dinner.” Lavalle widened his eyes a fraction, smiling. It was a fantastic smile. Nicholas had given the press many a fake, charming grin in the past; this was the best of them all combined. The simmering hatred of them, streamlined, brutally tailored down to an art.

He realized abruptly that Lavalle had no better an opinion of him than he had of Lavalle. Hands in his pockets, rocking slightly upon his heels, he looked entirely at ease.

This was his city. His ground.

“Dinner,” Nicholas said softly.

Lavalle glanced down, then up again. His lashes were long and fair against his cheeks. “Mais bien sûr. I have made a booking for eight.”

Nicholas had assumed Chaudhuri meant for them merely to look about the place. Eight was late for dinner—though not so late for Parisians, who enjoyed eating late into the night; give them a bottle of Beaujolais and a platter of charcuterie, and they would cheerfully wait out the sunrise over the Seine. Lavalle seemed intent on fitting himself to the stereotype as closely as possible. He now turned his lovely smile on Madalena, who—to her credit—neither blinked nor blushed against that frontal attack. “A table only for two, I’m afraid. Although... I am sure I could call...?”

“Oh, no.” Her voice was amused. “You two will want to get to know each other.” She extended a hand. “I’m Madalena Torres. The PA. Get him home before midnight, yeah?”

Lavalle ducked his head, his smile fading; a flush was just touching his cheekbones. What measure of control could the man have on his facial expressions? It was insanity.

“We should go then,” said Nicholas shortly, standing. Somewhere to the left of them, someone was snapping pictures. It was grating; yet Lavalle seemed content to linger, presenting his best profile. He was used to it. His job was to look his best for photographs—candids and otherwise.

Nicholas hated amateur paparazzi with the same fervor he hated professional ones. He always visualized the headlines, the tweets, the bloody BuzzFeed captions. “Traffic’ll be hell,” he grunted, to speed things along. Madalena held his phone hostage on most occasions, or he’d have called his chauffeur.

Lavalle blinked at him. “Traffic? Nobody drives in Paris.”

Nicholas looked at the endless flood of cars exiting the arches of the Palais du Louvre, streaming towards the Opéra Garnier.

“Nobody from Paris drives in Paris,” Lavalle amended. “Ah, mais, mes Américains!” He sounded amused. “We will take the bus. If we walk to the Seine we will find one going directly to Bastille, alongside the river. It will be much more pleasant. Being stuck in traffic is a...a pain in the ass. Non?”

Nicholas couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken public transportation. His chauffeur would think he’d been kidnapped.